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I've had so many knives stuck into me, when they hand me a flower I can't quite make out what it is. It takes time.
-Charles Bukowski
After living for seven years as nothing more than a hunted animal, settling back into a form of society was… difficult, to say the least. Ronon suddenly became overwhelmed with people and things and safety, and no idea what the hell he was supposed to do with any of it, and from his inability to hold a conversation to the alien feeling of a toothbrush in his hand, he supposed that he had, in a way, forgotten how to be human. The entire base of Atlantis seemed to think the same, judging by the looks of mild disgust and the gossipy whispers that followed him, and Ronon soon found that the paranoia made him more on edge than when he was on the run, so he acted exactly the way that was expected of him—barbaric, dangerous, a killing machine. It was more a self-preservation instinct than anything. He could hide behind his facade and be left alone, for once in his miserable life. It was better to be feared than vulnerable.
There was one person on the base who refused to fear him, much to his annoyance: a certain Dr. Carson Beckett. It perplexed Ronon to no end, but simultaneously presented a spark of warmth in his chest that he hadn’t felt in years. The first time they met, the man had gone from practically quaking in his boots to suddenly taking a scolding and almost parental tone with him so fast that Ronon could barely process what was happening, and the tone had yet to go away months later. Even more perplexing, whenever he encountered Ronon his smile brightened and he would always stop and ask Ronon how he was doing, how he was settling in, had he gotten a chance to look around or see the sunsets yet. It was unnerving, but Ronon found that he didn’t want him to stop.
Beckett had now taken to wandering up to whichever table Ronon was sitting at during the lunch hour and asking if he could sit there in a tone that was so casual and cheerful that Ronon couldn’t find it in him to say no, and no amount of glaring would deter him from day to day.
“How are you doing?” he would ask, and Ronon would give a noncommittal grunt, and Beckett would make some remark that was relevant to whatever the base was experiencing that day, and the rest of the meal would be spent in silence.
“Why are you doing this?” Ronon asked him bluntly one day before the doctor had a chance to sit down. Beckett blinked at him once or twice.
“Eating isn’t something that should be done alone,” he said, as if it were rather obvious. “It’s a time to gather with others. Besides, I think you’re rather a nice person under all the glaring.” He paused for a moment and added in an anxious rush, “of course, I’m perfectly fine to eat somewhere else if you—”
“No,” Ronon cut him off. “I… enjoy it.”
Beckett’s face lit up with a beaming smile, and he squeezed Ronon’s shoulder as he moved to sit down. The touch was ever so brief, but it froze Ronon in his seat until the feeling had lingered into nothingness, but even then, he could feel… something. The intrusion of his space made him bristle, but a vast emptiness stretched inside of him at its absence. He brushed it off and continued his lunch.
He didn’t give it another thought until a week or so later. The lunch hour came and went, and Beckett never showed up. Ronon shifted anxiously in the cafeteria chair. He knew there was nothing for him to worry about. Atlantis was perfectly safe, he assured himself as he navigated the halls to the infirmary. Atlantis was safe. Beckett was safe.
“Can I help you?” one of the nurses greeted pleasantly. Ronon opened his mouth and closed it again awkwardly, painfully aware of the open stares he was receiving from the rest of the medical staff.
“Is, uh, is Dr. Beckett here?” he asked somewhat stiffly. The man in question suddenly appeared from the depths of the infirmary, engrossed in conversation with another doctor, and a wave of relief washed over Ronon.
“Ronon! Is everything alright, lad?” Beckett asked upon catching sight of him. Ronon nodded shortly. People were staring even more, now.
“Yeah, just, uh, it’s lunchtime,” he muttered. Beckett glanced down at his watch and made a noise of surprise.
“So it is!” he exclaimed. “Last I knew it was still early morning. I’ll be right with you, I’ve got to finish this up first,” he said, gesturing to the clipboard he was holding. Ronon bobbed his head again and shuffled out of the room as fast as he could to get away from the suffocating stares. The familiar sound of whispers trailed after him, and once he was outside the door, he leaned against the wall and strained to hear what was being said.
“You eat lunch with that guy?” someone was saying. “He’s terrifying!”
“He’s a very nice young man once you get to know him,” Beckett insisted.
“I don’t know that I’d want to!” a different voice said. “I’ve said it from the start, I don’t think he can be trusted. I mean, how do we know that he wasn’t planted here by the Wraith?”
Ronon straightened up at the accusation and just barely held himself back from marching back into the room and slamming the culprit against the wall until they took back the insult. The feeling was partly washed away by something else that he couldn’t exactly identify, something that made him sag back against the wall and let out a heavy breath that ached in his chest.
“That is quite enough!” he heard Beckett snap suddenly. “I never knew my staff could be capable of facilitating such harmful gossip! I will not stand to hear this sort thing about anyone, and especially not one of my friends. Is that understood?”
There were some muttered affirmations, and a minute later Beckett exited the room looking a bit frazzled, but he smiled kindly at Ronon.
“Alright, lad, I’m ready now.”
They walked in silence for a bit before Ronon spoke up.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. Beckett glanced at him in confusion. “I have good hearing,” he clarified. “Thanks for… sticking up for me.”
“Of course I’d stick up for you!” Beckett sputtered, sounding almost as if he had been the one insulted. “But I do hope I’m not stepping out of place to consider us friends.”
“It’s fine,” Ronon muttered. Beckett smiled again and laid a hand on his arm.
“Don’t you mind anything they say,” he continued. He either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the way Ronon tensed up. “They’re just a wee bit paranoid, what with switching galaxies and all. They’ll come around eventually.” Beckett gave Ronon’s arm a pat or two and released him, and Ronon swallowed hard against the urge to drift a bit in order to have just a moment longer of contact. He shook himself out of it. He had to be going crazy.
————
The team was far more tactile than Ronon was used to people being. The exception was Rodney, but even he would pat Ronon’s shoulder or suddenly grip his arm when something scared him. John learned early on that Ronon would tense significantly whenever he was touched, and seemed to make an effort to avoid doing it unless necessary—something Ronon was both glad for and regretted wholeheartedly—but he would still slip up with an occasional hand on the shoulder or arm that would linger for too long.
Teyla was different. She noticed his discomfort and relentlessly continued her friendly touches, be it a gentle hand on his or her head on his shoulder after a long mission. Ronon knew that touch was an important part of the Athosian culture, but he still hated it. She burned his skin with a simple love he hadn’t known in years, and each time she did he felt himself breaking under the warmth and comfort provided. Ronon didn’t hate the touch so much, he was learning. He hated the looming threat of his carefully built defenses being decimated by something as small as a hand on his shoulder.
The day that Teyla hugged him for the first time was the day everything went downhill beyond recovery, and Ronon knew that he was crazy, that he had cracked beyond repair. It was a brief, friendly hug—they had gone on a mission without her on account of her badly twisted ankle—and she was relieved to see them all back in one piece. He was glad she turned away afterwards to question Rodney about the details of the mission, so that she didn’t see the way his face contorted as his lungs stuttered and his soul cried out in a terrible aching pain that wanted him to pull her to his very bones. He was broken, he was crazy, because he felt the same as he did all those nights where he couldn’t find enough food to satisfy his hunger for longer than a moment, and it was just a hug.
“You okay?” John asked him when the others had left, a worried hand on his shoulder. Don’t touch me, don’t let me go. “You’re staring at that wall like it’s personally offended you.”
Ronon grunted gruffly and shrugged, but the motion didn’t work to dislodge the other man’s hand. John frowned and looked him over with a careful eye.
“You didn’t get hurt or anything, did you?” he asked suspiciously. His hand was burning and breaking and Ronon wanted to slap it away and pull it closer.
“I’m fine,” he said roughly, but John’s frown didn’t go away, and neither did his hand.
“I think you should stop by the infirmary anyway. You can consider that an order.” And then he was gone, and Ronon took a breath that hurt. Maybe it was a good thing John had ordered him to the infirmary. Maybe he had gotten hurt at some point during the mission. Yes, that would explain it. He was injured, and he could heal. He wasn’t going mad.
<><><><>
“Oh, dear, what did you do this time?” Becket asked when Ronon shuffled into the infirmary.
“I… I’m not sure,” Ronon admitted sheepishly. Beckett gestured to a chair.
“Well, it’s just me here, so I’ve got all the time in the world.” He flashed a kind smile. “Where does it hurt?”
Ronon gestured vaguely to his chest area where the dull ache had yet to subside, and Beckett frowned, scribbling something on his clipboard.
“When did you start noticing it?”
“Uh… Teyla… she sort of hugged me, and then it hurt. I guess she must have jostled something,” Ronon muttered. “Shepard ordered me here. Said I was acting weird.”
Beckett hummed. “Could be something broken, or just bruising. Do you mind if I take a look?”
Ronon shook his head, and Beckett pulled aside his shirt and carefully felt along his chest and back. His hands were gentle. Ronon wanted them to hurt. He wanted them to hurt so that he could hide behind the pain. Instead, Beckett melted away his willpower like a flame to wax, and it must have showed on his face, because the doctor pulled back and exclaimed, “why, whatever’s the matter?”
“I think I’m going crazy,” Ronon blurted out, and then he told Beckett everything, how he never remembered feeling this way before, and he must be mad or a truly broken husk of a man. Beckett listened with sad eyes, and when he was done, laid his hands on Ronon’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes.
“How long have you been alone?” he asked softly.
“Seven years,” Ronon answered, and he suddenly felt the weight of every single day.
“You poor lad,” Beckett lamented, and Ronon hated pity, but this didn’t feel like pity at all. It felt like a warm blanket on a bitterly cold night. He swallowed hard and tried to blink away the moisture gathering in his eyes.
“Listen to me,” Beckett said, and his voice was quiet and kind. “There is nothing wrong with you. You’re not crazy, and you’re not broken. You’re just a bit lonely, is all. People were meant to be together. No one deserves to be alienated from others the way that you were, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am for what you went through.” He scanned Ronon’s face for a minute, and then in a sad tone that showed that he already knew the answer, said:
“When was the last time you got a proper hug?”
Ronon shrugged and tried to open his mouth to say something, but what came out instead was a choked noise that could’ve been a sob. Arms wrapped around him and his head was tucked under Beckett’s, and he was breaking again, but all he could do was cling to Beckett like he was a child. He felt the moment that he broke apart. Something behind his chest snapped and he melted into Beckett, but the shards didn’t pierce him the way he expected. They turned to soft petals and floated away peacefully, and for the first time in seven years, Ronon felt whole.